


The Black Bird Sings

by Selcier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Kinda, M/M, Prostitution, Sith Anakin, What Have I Done, alternate everything, but everyone is happy with this situation, charaacter death but not sad really at all, head canon unlocked, hopfully gross misuse of the force, inspired off of the starwarskinkmeme sort of, obi-wan is a actually not a mess, obi-wan is a ceremonial 'host' to force users, some things could be considered noncon but the characters don't consider then to be noncon, sorry dad, updated to explicit, use of the Dark Side, you introduced me to star wars and this is what you get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selcier/pseuds/Selcier
Summary: Obi-Wan trains in the Temple on Jehda instead of the Temple on Coruscant. Continuing in a long line of mezabaan, who contract with other Force users in the Galaxy, Obi-wan’s life takes a sharp turn from his possible Jedi upbringing. Trained to listen, entertain and engage in conversation, Obi-wan is familiar with current academia and politics. He lives alone, with only his aide and apprentice, in the Jehda Temple under the heavy mantle of centuries old traditions and values.Raised to be a host to Force users of all types, he is surprised (and only a bit apprehensive) when he learns he will be hosting a Lord of the Sith. Darth Vader, apprentice to Emperor Sidious and High Commander of the Sith Galactic Imperial Army, calls upon him with little polite conversation and a jealous disdain towards Obi-Wan's other guests. While most of his guests visit only a few times during their lives, Obi-wan often finds Vader haunting his apartments.If only he could cajole the handsome man into speaking a bit more.





	1. The Birds and the Bees

When his apprentice Kaimen tells him that a Sith Lord has requested his attentions, Obi-Wan laughs. “You cannot be serious! A Sith hasn’t visited the Temple in almost four centuries. And you expect Emperor Sidious to join us next month?”

Kaimen shakes his head and hands him the communication. “Not Lord Sidious. His apprentice. Darth Vader. He’s left no other instructions or comments.”

Obi-Wan reads over the message with one eyebrow raised. He reaches back behind him for his chair and slumps into it with all the grace of a youngling. “Oh,” he says, “I see.”

Kaimen and Sortya give the apartment the most thorough cleaning since Master Yaddle visited almost ten years ago. Obi-Wan helps them shake out the pillows, replace the sheets on the outside daybed and stock the pantry with any number of confectionaries. They open the ancient windows for a full three days to circulate fresh air though the empty rooms and shine the tile floors until they can see their hazy reflections.

Obi-Wan greets their visitor in the Central Hall as is customary. It's a tradition he often forgoes with his regular contacts. But the Sith stand on ceremonial rules and Obi-Wan’s interests lie in pleasing.

The heat stifles his breathe in the unconditioned hall as dry desert winds bring in sand and the smell of the market outside. The ornate title adorning the space climbs up the pillars and walls but is lost in the shadows overhead. Birds shriek and squawk, invisible, the high darkened rafters. He pulls at the collar of his ceremonial robe as sweat builds beneath the many layers.

When the Sith arrives, he does so alone and shrouded in black. As expected, he bows once as Obi-Wan returns the greeting. “Welcome to Jehda,” he says, folding his hands in front of him in the deferential pose. “The Force has traveled with you.” 

“I welcome its companionship,” The Sith says; the traditional words. Obi-Wan is only somewhat surprised at his formality. Ever since the initial message, he’d scoured the holonet for articles and briefs about Lord Darth Vader. He’d found a variety of military analysis from the Republic about tactics, various articles from sentient rights activists and a odd personal commentary about the Sith’s height and fashion choices.

Nothing to suggest anything about his personality or aspirations. Well, except the obvious domination of the galaxy. Obi-Wan already knew about that detail.

After their greetings, his attendants usher them through the twisting passages of the Temple in the darkness. Built over hundreds of years in the infancy of galactic governing bodies, the Temple’s additions pile and stack on top of each other, covering up windows and blocking off passageways. Dim, low-tech lights guide their feet. Obi-Wan can barely see his companion next to him in the fold of his dark robes. Only his sickening yellow eyes glow in the gloom.

Obi-Wan’s own apartment is a welcome burst of light and fresh air. The Sith stands amongst the delicate couches and chairs looking quite out of place. Normally, the Jedi Obi-Wan hosts look more at ease against the light back drop of pale shades.

First meetings like this are rarely so strange and stilted. For the last twenty years Obi-Wan has hosted Jedi, rogue Force users, and even Dathomirian Witches. All were instructed about expectations and limits before their arrival. All had been explicit in their comments as to the nature of their visit. Obi-Wan shifts his feet under his robes, unsure on how to proceed.

“Kaimen,” he says, “Would you please assist me with this robe. It's far too lovely a day to spend inside.”

Obi-Wan shrugs off the thick outer layer and unclips the second silk lining from around his shoulders. Kaimen takes them without question to clean and hang. Obi-wan sighs as the cool air of the room washes over his light under-robes. His long skirt floats around him, sitting high up his chest, but the voluminous sleeves of his short bouse are enough to keep him modest. “Shall we?” He gestures for Lord Vader to follow him and has to force himself to not glance back as he walks. The man’s Force presence ripples with every footfall.

The garden is Obi-Wan’s luxurious retreat. Most of the visiting Jedi find it to be small and uninteresting compared to their travels throughout the galaxy. Spoiled by cruisers and Temples with controlled air, they find the desert air choking. Most infinitely prefer the bedroom on their visits.

In contrast, the sun-weathered walls of the courtyard soar up around the lush bushes and grasses. Paths of tiny pebbles and sand wander throughout the foliage. Birds twitter and chirp in among the green leaves and occasionally flutter from one colorful plant to another. The desert wind loses its scorching heat as it passes through the vegetation in soothing puffs.

Obi-Wan makes for the cloth he spread on the ground the day before. If the Sith has no requests, then he’ll simply go about his day as usual. Folding his legs beneath him, his wide skirt billows up with the displaced air as he sits before settling around him in a puffy pale blue cloud. He pulls an enameled bowl onto his lap and continues to shuck seeds. Vader stands next to the blanket, peering down out of his dark hood.

He glances up at the Sith after a few moments. “You’re free to join me, Lord Vader. I find the monotony of breaking the pods relaxing. Almost like meditation but without a mindful purpose.”

From his low vantage point, Obi-Wan can see up into the Sith’s hood. His face is the same as the clips from press conferences and documentaries. Tan, with dark blonde curls and a nasty scar across his nose. However, no blue, fuzzy image could capture the way his eyes flick from one object to another, his eyebrows furrowed. They stare at Obi-Wan without effect.

“What are these?” The Sith finally says.

Obi-Wan smiles, pleasantly surprised at the question. “Cardamon seeds. It's a spice I quite enjoy. The black variety impart an almost smoky aroma in baked goods.” He hands one of the tiny pods up to Vadar. “Perhaps Kaimen will be so kind as to gift us with a cardamom and citrus cake this evening.”

The Sith plucks the pod from Obi-Wan’s fingers with one gloved hand. He rolls it around before snapping his fingers and breaking it open. He hands it back to Obi-Wan.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, the corners of his lips betray his amusement. He uses his short nails to pry the pod open fully and lightly scrape out the tiny black seeds into the bowl.

Vader remains standing but twists his hand. The pods still in bowl lift up into the air on a wave of the Force.  They spin for a moment, suspended, before cracking open with a wave of Vader's hand. With a few dull clinks, he drops them back into the bowl.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says. “That’s one way of doing it.” He stares at the broken pods in the bowl before setting it aside. “Well, you have no excuse then when I invite you sit. To be perfectly honest, you standing over me is quite unnerving.”

He doesn’t sit, of course, but looks out across the garden. “Is this your doing?” He asks. “An oasis in the sand?”

“Hm, partially,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m sure this garden has been here as long as this section of the Temple. But the past two or so occupants weren’t so interested in it. I confess, it has been an important project of mine.”

Vader doesn’t say anything else so Obi-Wan chooses to continue. “My favorite section is under these trees here. The sun takes little pity on my skin and the trees provide welcome shade.”

The Sith’s wrist beeps twice, cutting off any reply he might have had. Vader frowns, his handsome face marred with the ugly look. “My Master requests my presence. We will continue this meeting in the future.”

He bows at the waist again as Obi-Wan struggles to stand to return his goodbyes. He manages to bow, the hem of his voluminous skirt caught under one of his feet. “May the Force go with you,” he says.

The Sith nods, turns on one heel and vanishes back into the apartment. Obi-Wan sits back down. “Oh,” he says out loud.


	2. A Well

Traditionally, meeting with the mezabaan is a privilege offered to the few and not the many. Of the thousands of Jedi, Obi-wan has personally hosted only a handful; and even less whose names he can remember. Members of the Order are often called away by the Council and only the most tenacious disobey their orders. And, in recent decades as Emperor Sidious incites heightened attacks on Republic planets, the visitors have dwindled. It isn’t rare for Obi-wan to go years between seeing a returning Jedi to his apartments. Most only manage to make the journey once.

One Master is the exception however. He comes often, almost twice a year or more, and always overstays his welcome.

“I see that you haven’t yet finished the scroll I gifted you with on my last visit, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon Jinn says. He swirls his tiny spoon around in his tea cup. “I would have thought it would pair nicely with the book on agriculture you were pursuing the last we spoke.”

Obi-wan smiles politely. “Yes, of course. Although I have been busy these last few months.” He desperately wants to talk with someone about the translations he’s been doing in the lower catacombs but he doesn’t want Master Jinn to stay a moment longer.

He contemplates telling him to leave. Would that be unbecoming?

Kaimen slips in through the hidden door behind Jinn’s back with a panicked look on his face. The younger man, just nineteen this past summer, wrings his hands and sways on the balls of his feet. He holds up his data tablet, frantically gesturing at the screen with one pointed finger.

Obi-wan stands before he can stop himself. “I do apologize, Master Jinn, but it seems I have a prior engagement. Kaimen would escort you back to your ship.”

Jinn’s eyebrow raise. “Oh course, Obi-wan. I’ll just finish this cup first. Please don’t feel that you need to delay leaving on my behalf.”

Obi-wan knows that a Jedi would release their frustrations to the Force. After all, some of his earliest memories feature the creche in the Coruscanti Temple and the other younglings there. It had been one of their first lessons; to turn to the Force.

But he is no Jedi.

“Master Jinn, excuse me if I have been too circumscript. I mean to say that I have a guest arriving. Your requested time ended some days ago.”

A dark cloud of anger flashes across the Jedi’s face for an instant before it is replaced by a benevolent smile. “No, Obi-wan, it is I who should apologize. I was reticent in my duties.” He stands, towering over the shorter man despite Obi-wan’s hair ornaments. “I shall see myself out.”

A throat clears from behind Obi-wan and he closes his eyes; a sigh escaping from between his lips and rustling his trimmed beard.

Jinn looks out over Obi-wan’s shoulder to the door. “Ah, I see they have arrived.”

Sortya stands behind Vader’s black shape trying to disappear back into the dark hall. Obi-wan knows she probably tried to stall as long as possible. It certainly wasn’t effective.

The Sith Lord himself appears unaffected by the situation as he appraises Jinn with a cold stare. His cloak rests on his shoulders, pushed back and away from his arms, but his hood is off and his face bare. “Jedi,” he says. He looks between Obi-wan and Jinn. “The Force has two sides. And in Balance they will remain.”

Obi-wan smiles at him in relief, the blood flushing back into circulation around his body. He almost expected the younger man to fly into a fit of anger based on the holos he’d seen. Even though he hadn’t yet glimpsed it, he knows the Sith’s lightsaber is hidden in the folds of his cloak. To discount such a weapon would be foolhardy.

He sees Jinn’s shoulders tense, however. If the man wasn’t immediately aware of Vader’s identity, the traditional words of a temporary truce between Jedi and Sith would leave him with no question. “Lord Vader,” he says. His voice is strong and steady. “I was not aware the Sith frequented Jedha.”

“Jehda is open to all the children of the Force,” Obi-wan interjects automatically. The phrase comes back from his early training with ease. “You must only ask.”

Jinn frowns at his answer but he makes no attempt to contradict it. “Of course, Obi-wan.” He takes a step towards the door. “As always, it has been a pleasure.”

Kaimen hurries forward to place himself between Vader and Jinn as they cross paths at the edge of living quarters. “This way, please, Master Jinn,” he says with all the grace of a fully trained mezabaan. Obi-wan feels pride at his progress.

When the door swings shut behind them, Obi-wan slumps back into his chair at the game table. “This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen, you know. Why is it that when you come to call, a thousand years of tradition are thrown to the side?”

Vader scoffs from his place across the room. “I have used the traditional words. Its that karking Jedi who disgraces the Force.”

“Hm, yes,” Obi-wan says, rubbing his forehead, “Jinn likes to throw off the yoke of authority whenever possible.” He looks down at his embroidered silks and ornamental tabards; clothes Jinn favors. Detailed scenes of flowers and birds on the cuffs and around the neck symbolize the Jedi belief of the Living Force. He reaches up to straighten the delicate gilded leaves and vines adorning his head band. “Except when it suits him of course.”

The Sith stands silent and watching.

Obi-wan sighs. “Is there a chance you’d be interested in a walk? I’ve been languishing indoors for days now and would enjoy a chance to stretch my legs. Perhaps we could walk to the market to find some citrus for that cake I promised you on your last visit.”

“Are you going to wear that?” Vader asks. He gestures at Obi-wan’s layers.

Obi-wan laughs, “Of course not, my Lord. I think something sensible would suffice.”

Vader waits by the door as Obi-wan changes. Sortya helps him out of the clasps and ties that bind him into the various jackets, pants and robes of the formal vestment. Thankfully, Obi-wan can pull on the next set on his own. He favors long sleeves for time spent outdoors despite the hot sun. But the white, quilted shirt reflects most of the heat away from his light skin.  He slips into an easy pair of tasseled maroon shoes and light blue pants.

When he emerges into the main room, Vader narrows his eyes. “You call that sensible? You’ll be picked off from across the city by a sharp shot.”

Obi-wan smiles up at him and reaches for the Sith’s elbow. Softened leather wraps around Vader’s hands from his fingers to his wrists where the rest of this gloves are covered by fitted sleeves. Underneath, his muscles are firm and unyielding. Obi-wan hooks one arm loosely around Vader’s and lightly rests his other hand on the man’s elbow.

“Really, Lord Vader. I am hardly a target. What point could my death possibly make?” They exit the apartment and stroll through the passageways at a leisurely pace. “If anything, it would only galvanize the children of the Force to set aside their differences at my martyrdom. What a fate to endure!”

Vader’s eyes, the only bit of him Obi-wan can really see, shine golden in the gloom. “Mezabaan Kenobi dies suddenly while picking out fruit at a backwater market. Only his aides mourn his death.”

Obi-wan smiles despite the jab.

The market outside the Temple doors bustles with enough activity to keep Obi-wan entertained for a lifetime. Children run back and forth across their path chasing each other and simple toys while they holler. Merchants on either side of the street call out to passerbys in an attempt to lure shoppers to their stalls. Steaming up from various carts and pits, the smell of roasted meats and tangy spices waft back and forth on the breeze. Piles of discarded food and worn rags, tucked into alleyways, simmer in the heat with the sweet scent of decay.

And underneath the hum of energy, Obi-wan feels the steady presence of the Force connecting every living thing to one another. As solid as the cobblestones under his feet, the Force binds him to the planet and its people. He feels comforted by its presence; filled with the light of thousand worlds.

He chances a glance up at Vader’s profile. The Sith’s eyes dart from one sight to another, his face pinched and his jaw clenched. Underneath Obi-wan’s hands, Vader’s body tightens with every shout in the street.

“There’s a tiny cafe I enjoy, just off the main stretch. Do you like hot drinks?” Obi-wan asks. “I know the heat doesn’t seem right for it, but sometimes I miss Coruscant's temperate climate and need a reminder of chilly evening rain.”

The Sith looks down at him, frowning. “I am not opposed,” he says.

Obi-wan smiles. “Well then, it's just down here.”

They turn onto a quieter street. Buildings rise up on either side in various stages of disrepair. Overhead, lines of drying laundry block out the worst of the sun. Tucked into a tiny alley, the cafe itself is nothing more than a cart and a variety of mismatched tables and chairs. Obi-wan orders his favorite from the owner and something sweet for the Sith.

“We can share, if you’d like,” he says when the drinks are placed in front of them. Vader sits with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of the intersecting roads. Obi-wan pushes his steaming beverage towards the other man. “This one is steamed milk with pink peppercorns.”

Vader grasps the mug lightly as if it will break in his hands. He doesn’t say anything about the taste but he doesn’t push it back across the table. Obi-wan resigns himself to the fruity concoction. It does temper the heat beading on his skin.

“That Jedi seems familiar with you,” the Sith says, his voice rasping. The rough edges of his words remind Obi-Wan of waking up in the soft tumble of sheets after a late night with a warm lover at his side. He wonders if Vader speaks much at all beyond military orders. All the holos depict him as a brutal commander; nothing like the Emperor’s captivating and nuanced oration.

Obi-wan shrugs, running his finger across the top of his glass. “I see him often. And many are familiar with me. It is my position to be so, you remember.” He leans in closer. “There’s no need for you to be so distant either. I am no Jedi. You don’t need to grandstand-”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the Sith reaches across the table and yanks a fistful of Obi-wan’s shirt forward. His face twists with something akin to pain before he smashes their mouths together. His tongue presses hot and insistent on Obi-wan’s lips; tasting of warm milk and peppery spice. Obi-wan moans with surprise, his hands flying up to brace himself against Vader’s forearm in the awkward position over the table.

The Sith pushes him back down into his chair a second later, leaving Obi-wan disheveled and flushed with desire. Vader watches him, his face unreadable and his eyebrows furrowed. The younger man’s Force presence vibrates with a rash of volatile, unbalanced urges and emotions.

But he smiles, a small lift of his lips on his tan face, and settles more deeply into his shabby plastic chair. “I prefer the one you’re drinking,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. I wrote another chapter of this. 
> 
> If anyone wants that recipe for Cardamon cake, I'd be happy to send it! Also, the hot drink here is a play on Marsala Chai. Clearly I've been too lazy to make up/look up Star Wars spices. 
> 
> Like all my stories, please feel free to leave constructive critisim.!!


	3. Plucking the Apple

Obi-wan can’t remember the last time it rained on Jehda. There are notes, in his meticulous copies of ancient scrolls, of monsoons that would cover the continents for months with heavy rainfall. But such storms are lost to history. Instead, a shipment of water from a nearby moon and the work of local moisture farmers fills Jehda’s reservoirs. 

The small pool in his garden exemplifies the height of Obi-wan’s indulgence. Nestled in the center of the courtyard, the rectangular tub is deep enough to submerge himself but not wide enough to actually swim. He justifies its presence by using it for activities other than leisure. Sortya uses the cool water for delicate laundry and afterwards they pour the extra soap in to scrub the sides clean. 

A trellis, made of scrap metals from long ruined starships, extends over the pool. A creeping vine grows up the side and over the top giving some shade from the large flat leaves. Occasionally, during the cooler months, the vine flowers and tiny pale yellow petals drop into into the water. Around the edge of the pool, decorative mosaic tiles create an easy place to sit.

“Your Master seems to favor some lessons over others,” Obi-wan says, tilting his head to look Vader in the eye. “Although, your knowledge on formal negotiations is quite extensive. I don't think I’ve ever seen Qui-gon Jinn at such a lack for words.” 

One of Obi-wan’s legs dangles over the side of the pool rim just enough for his toes to dip into the water. He sits on a thin cushion, angled sideways, bent over a small breakfast tray serving as a writing desk. Papers are strewn about him in tidy stacks weighted with smooth stones. He squints at the next line of text; trying to decipher the elusive hieroglyphs. 

Vader has finally discarded his cloak but his garments still cover him head to toe in black. He sits, a dark smear in the foliage, across from Obi-wan at the tray, watching him work. Vader grins at him, more a snarl than a real smile. “He’s hardly worth your concern.”

“I do enjoy his company, you know. And he brings me gifts from the Jedi archives. Sometimes it’s best to court your allies even if they aren’t to your tastes.”

Vader leans in closer, his arm resting on one raised knee. His high boots gleam outside the dim light of Obi-wan’s apartments “Is it females, then, that are more to your taste?”

Obi-wan shrugs, returning his gaze to his papers. “Not particularly. Although, I believe I am to their taste.”

Vader sits back again, a scowl on his face. The scar across his face appears stark and fresh in the bright sun. 

It's been months since they last saw each other. Obi-wan’s daily holonews report pulls up increased activity in the outer rim; a few planets stuck between Republic and Empire control were bombarded by sieges. Just two weeks ago, Vader’s flagship, along with the majority of the Imperial Fleet, mounted a three-pronged invasion on Tatooine. The desert planet had fallen from Hutt control almost five decades before and had remained a hotbed of military activity since. 

The surface reports left little to the imagination. Tiny desert towns burnt to the ground, displaced residents and slaves forced out into the dunes with little hope of survival. The Republic commentator belabored about Republic humanitarian aid but Obi-wan doubted it would come to any good. Imperial troops tend to shoot first and never ask questions. 

And Vader’s burning lightsaber headed the first siege on Republic controlled Mos Espa; the few Jedi stationed there cut down and strangled in a vulgar mess of screams and gore. 

Obi-wan scratches out one of his previous translations and scribbles a few notes in the margin. 

“What kind of gifts?” Vader asks suddenly, breaking through the soothing chime of bird song in the background.

“Many things. Jinn prefers scrolls and other texts. But other Jedi have brought produce from distant planets or gifts of fabric and stones. They know I must have something of value to pass on to dear Kaimen once he inherits my position.” Obi-wan says. “A few years ago, a party of Dathomir Witches gifted me an hallucinogenic herb that had us grousing on the couches for hours. I couldn’t form a coherent sentence for weeks afterwards. Kaimen needed to cancel my appointments I was so unhinged.” 

He places his ink writer off to the side and looks up at Vader. “But it is an honor for me to receive such gifts. Not a commitment on your behalf.”

The Sith frowns and Obi-wan continues, “Once I decide to, Kaimen will become the mezabaan and I will leave the Temple. This could be as soon as his training completes; but I have no inclination to depart soon. I have far too much interest in finishing my research.”

Vader stares down at the piles of papers. “This?” he asks.

Obi-wan turns his body to drop his other foot in the pool, wet up to his calves. Tiny ripples feather out from his movements in the water. In a thin linen shirt that floats around his shoulders and straight pants that only reach his knees, he’s quite cool in the morning breeze. 

“I’ve spent almost the last two years taking rubbings of the tablets in the catacombs. The writing is decipherable, with practice and patience. But I’ve only finished translating just over half of the known tablets. I have rubbings of just a few more.”

Vader picks up the top sheet on Obi-wan’s stack as if it might crumble. Obi-wan smiles at him, aware that the man has probably never handled of piece of paper made from plant fiber before. Such things have gone out of vogue in the centralized systems.

“These are Sith characters,” he says.

“Hmm, yes, an ancient base. I’m hardly fluent.”

Vader places the paper back on the stack; his fingers trailing over the rough edges.

Obi-wan looks out over the pool, leaning back on the heels of his hands. “I grew up on Coruscant you know. In the Jedi Temple. As a youngling I imagined I was destined for a lifetime of Knighthood; of faraway planets and thrilling battles.”

He tips his head back and closes his eyes. “I’d imagine all the Kings and Queens I’d rescue and how I’d duel with a Sith Lord and win.” Obi-wan smiles at the memory. “But it wasn’t to be, of course. The Force has led me down a different path. A path that only a few follow.”

Kaimen brings them a light lunch then and Obi-wan pulls his feet from the water to sit fully on his cushion. A large tray, speckled with white ceramic dishes covered with enameled lids, bears cool fruits and cheeses. Obi-wan slathers small crispy toasts with berry preserves for both himself and the Sith. Vader ignores the delicate forks in favor of his gloved fingers. 

Kaimen stands off to the side, ready to fetch them anything else they might want. But Obi-wan sends him away with a wave of his hand. “Why don’t you go visit your friend in the city this afternoon? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.”

Vader watches the boy go with a scowl. “So he’s your apprentice?”

“Yes. Although not in the same way that you are Emperor Sidious's apprentice. I am hardly his Master. I find his company pleasing.” Obi-wan pours himself a glass of cold tea from the pitcher. Beads of condensation roll down the sides and puddle on the wooden surface of the tray. 

“You’ve taken him to the bed then?” 

Obi-wan sips at his drink. “That is a particularly personal inquiry. Perhaps it would be better suited for Kaimen instead of myself. After all, it is his body you question.”

Vader scowls, his lips pulling back from his white teeth. “Yet you discuss sleeping with Jinn?”

“I have said no such thing, my Lord,” Obi-wan says, sitting up straighter and buttering another small toast. “It would be polite of you to not repeat words I have not yet said.” 

The Sith slumps, his anger evaporating into the Force like a candle snuffed out. Obi-wan wonders if he relishes being challenged. Surely, there are few who would dare. 

“I go to Coruscant in a few days time,” Obi says, looking for a new topic. “A new Council member is being sworn in, as I’ve sure you’ve heard, and the Order has invited me to attend the festivities.” He tilts his head. “I confess, I have spent such little time on such a bustling planet that I am a bit apprehensive.” 

Vader reaches for another fruit.  “A slum of a city full of corrupt officials and crooked businessmen.”

Obi-wan laughs, smiling. “Well, I assume this is from personal experience? Although, I’m sure I could have named any system in the Republic and you would have had much the same to say. Alderaan, perhaps? Or maybe Ryloth? What about the Neutral systems? I haven’t been to a good spectacle of military might on Mandalore in years.”

“Mandalorian wool gathering lessens the show. Last year’s parade was disgraceful.”

Obi-wan laughs again, this time from low in his chest. He reaches across the tray to Vader’s leg and rubs his thumb over the curve of the taller man’s kneecap. “Well, the next time you are invited, I would have no objections to joining you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and Vader's jealousy rages on!! Thank you all so much for the comments. Please let me know if you see any inconsistancies. 
> 
> Lol chapter 4 is almost done already so it will be up in the next few days. :)


	4. Shooting from the Waist

Obi-wan expects to see Sortya as he and Kaimen step off the Jedi transport after it touches down in Jehda’s dirty spaceport. He does not expect to see Lord Vader leaning against the side of a sleek fighter as they make their way to the exit. Techs and grunts scatter out of his way as he joins Obi-wan’s tiny retinue. With his hood up, he looks every bit the Emperor’s Apprentice; his lightsaber hanging in clear view on his utility belt. 

He greets Obi-wan with a bow and the shorter man hastens to return it with a flushed face. He rarely receives such lascivious attention on Jehda outside the Temple. 

But his back and neck have grown stiff from months spent on Coruscant. Evening after evening of parties and state dinners followed by early mornings in mass mediations and political posturing. He’d scarcely had a moment to himself before some ranking Jedi would call on him for a conversation over tea. 

In the heat of Jehda, however, Obi-wan feels his heart lighten. He concentrates for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut, and focuses on displaying his happiness through the Force. 

“The Force has traveled with you, Kenobi,” Vader says. He hooks his elbow so that Obi-wan can slip his hands around the Sith’s forearm. He holds on lightly, relishing in the soft leather under his palms.

“And I welcome its companionship,” Obi-wan says. He smiles up at Vader’s face with a slight lift of his lips. The Sith’s yellow eyes burn in the deep tan of his face. 

Clouds darken the sky over the city in shades of deep blues and purples. The sun hangs low over the horizon, its last light flickering across the planet’s surface. But the rare haze of humidity clings thick. The airs smells of sour ozone; saturated, as if the sky were on the verge of dropping rain. 

Their walk back to the Temple goes by far too quickly for Obi-wan’s tastes despite the heavy drag of his traveling clothes. The thick, beaded fabric pulls heavy on his shoulders. But back in the comfort of his apartment, he cracks the window of his private bedroom to let in the barest hint of wind.

Outside, the sounds from the streets filter up from far below; the loud clanging and hollering of the merchants dulled by the distance. The last light of the sun covers the Temple in a deep velvet haze and only a tiny portion of light filters in through the window, cloaking the room in an calming dusk. 

From his position on the bed, Vader’s hands steady Obi-wan’s body as the Sith plucks and pulls at various knots and clasps lining his back. His fingers grasp with firm pressure along Obi-wan’s ribs and flex minutely as each new challenge falls undone. Occasionally, he’ll reach up to tug at a section of cloth to expose more and more of Obi-wan’s shoulders and spine. The muscles of the Sith’s shoulders flex under his dark tunic as he works. 

Obi-wan gives instructions with quiet patience hinting at difficult sections and hidden clasps. He holds the brocade fabric up against his chest to keep it straight while Vader works. The textured cloth scratches at his skin and drags, heavy in his grip. He feels calm, relaxed in the Sith’s company. 

Vader’s presence in the Force swells and dissipates with each breath. The Dark, smouldering heat settles in the cracks in Obi-wan’s mind; insulating and defensive. In the back of his mouth, a deep bloom of savory energy lulls him in the tranquility of the room. 

“You were correct about Coruscant, I believe,” Obi-wan says. The fabric adorning the walls and the lavish piles of blankets and pillows muffle his whispers. “A hive of scum and villany. Even the Jedi Temple suffers under its own moral depravity.”

“Hypocrites,” Vader mumbles, his eyes on the ties, “the lot of them.”

“Hm, yes, they do hold themselves on a pedestal to be sure. As a collective that is. This war has shown us the underside of the galaxy.” 

“And do you talk to them about me in such a way?”

Obi-wan hums, thinking. “They are aware of your continued presence here, of course. Master Jinn would have reported on your meeting despite his animosity towards the Council. But no, it is not my practice to speak of my own personal activities.”

“Is that Obi-wan Kenobi speaking or the flowery words of the mezabaan?”

Obi-wan chuckles. “An astute question,” he says, “Perhaps a bit of both.”

Vader leans in close to Obi-wan’s back to peer at a knot. His warm breath ghosts over Obi-wan’s spine and Obi-wan shivers and shifts on his feet. His toes dig into the plush carpeting, warm in his thick stockings. Coruscant had been colder than he remembered. And the blank wall of space between planets even more chilling.

“It would be easier to cut them off,” Vader says, tugging at one knot while his other hand holds Obi-wan at the waist. 

“But that would defeat the purpose of such a performance.” 

Obi-wan glances back over his shoulder at Vader’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration and his teeth clenched. 

“If you cut them off, you would miss the opportunity to unwrap a gift.”

The last catch flips open and Vader’s hands still, his eyes fixed on Obi-wan’s back.

The older man laughs with little more than a shake of his shoulders. A thrill of desire races up his spine. He suddenly wishes to test the other man; to see what depravity his words can coax to the surface. “Come now, my Lord. My language can be anything but vulgar. How many have you raped after a battle? Surely a bit of teasing is of little consequence to you.”

The Sith’s hands grasp at his waist, almost painful in their strength. He spins Obi-wan to face him, his face tight and teeth bared. “This is not a conquest.” He stands, towering over the shorter man, his face twisted in anger. The Force slithers up around the room like a poisonous flood. 

Obi-wan’s hands loosen on the garment and it falls to the floor in a voluminous puddle around his legs. A cold wash of excitement spills from his mouth in another incitement. “Isn’t it? I hardly see the difference.”

Vader grabs him by the hair, forcing Obi-wan to look up at him. Obi-wan’s neck twists under the pressure of the unnatural angle. The Sith’s fingers dig into his skin and scalp; a distinct difference from the stabilizing foundation they provided a moment ago. “Why do you test me? You know I cannot - will not - harm you but you pull at my anger anyways. The Dark Side is not forgiving, mezabaan.” 

Obi-wan’s back arches under the attention, his skin flushed and sensitive. This close, Vader smells of oil and sweat. The smooth fabric of his black tunic and tabards brush across Obi-wan’s sensitive chest with every harsh breath the Sith takes. 

There had been nothing for him at the Jedi Temple. The halls were filled with uncomfortable memories of teasing peers and judgmental Masters. Even the quarters he had been given, while large by most standards, mimicked the dull aesthetics of a pious Order. He instantly hated the cream walls and beige bed coverings. A hollow shell.

What would his life have amounted to if he had stayed? 

“I chose this life. I am no slave,” Obi-wan says, quiet and cracked.

“What?” Vader says. His voice snaps and spits. His body stills, tension throbbing through his frame and in the Force. Vader’s fingers tighten in Obi-wan’s hair. His eyes narrow to slits, gleaming and golden and ringed with blood. “What did you say?”

“I am no slave, Darth Vader,” he repeats. He stares up, unabashed. “You dance around me; teetering on the edge of action. But this is a conquest. And I want to be caught.” 

Vader’s eyes widen, his mouth open in surprise. The hold he has on Obi-wan’s hair loosens. He looks down at the red flush blooming across Obi-wan’s chest and the dark marks from his own fingers on Obi-wan’s bare side. Half-swallowed by the starched garment on the floor, Obi-wan’s erection strains upward for attention. 

Obi-wan feels Vader’s intentions in the Force before the taller man pushes him to the floor in a tumble of bodies and fabric. In a mimicry of their brutal kiss in the alleyway months before, the Sith’s mouth sucks on his cock hot and wet; swallowing and slurping. His fingers squeeze around Obi-wan’s hips as his tongue slides over his heavy sack. 

Obi-wan’s back arches under the wet suck but a band of the Force along his chest holds him to the floor. He moans, a low sound deep in the back of his throat, and scrambles for purchase in Vader’s golden hair. “Oh,” he says, his head falling back. “Ah, that’s-”

The Force ignites around them, sizzling over Obi-wan’s skin like an electrical storm. The smell of ozone grows stronger in the thick air of the room. It pushes against Obi-wan’s mind, pressing and rolling in its intensity. The smooth weight of it wraps around Obi-wan’s throat, squeezing tightly enough for his breath to come in short, strained bursts. 

Vader hums, his throat contracting around Obi-wan. Surrounded by the thick pile of the garment, all Obi-wan can see of him is the top of his head bobbing up and down. He tightens his fingers more securely in the Sith’s curls; his other hand reaching down around his thigh to feel at Vader’s mouth around his cock. 

The Force shivers then, a sensation that rolls up Obi-wan’s spine and releases through his mouth in a filthy sound of surprise. “Ah, I can’t - “

His orgasm builds up from the arches of his feet, spreading along his muscles and out to his finger tips in a flush. His balls tighten, his hips stuttering against Vader’s hold as his pleasure blooms in a hot burst. Vader pulls his mouth back with a wet slurp just as his cock pulses. Obi-wan watches the hot burst of his cum squirt out in a string of white; his own fingers still wrapped around the base. He slides them up and down, desperate to pull out every last drop.

He shudders again as a smaller wave of heat soothes him. With one last sigh, his arms and legs fall to the sides, heavy and still. His mind quiets, only aware of the soft carpet at his back and the deep rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. 

Vader watches him from between his thighs. He doesn’t smile, but his face is unguarded for the barest instant. He sits back, and then stands, leaving Obi-wan spread open on the floor. 

He leaves without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, this chapter called for upgrading the kink level to E. Sorry but not really.  
> There will be more backstory building in the next chapter. Prepare youself!!!
> 
> @Amidalascoutore created a fantastic piece of fanart of mezabaan Obi-wan! You can see it ere: https://selcier.tumblr.com/post/161937587320/amidalascouture-for-selcier-s-wonderful-and
> 
>  
> 
> Notes from my wonderful beta thelivingcontradiction:
> 
> Anakin's all, "Feel the power of the dark side!"  
>  **sucks your dick**
> 
> What a character. 
> 
> He really showed him what was up.


	5. The Head Incident

Obi-wan remains frozen in place, his mouth hanging open in a poor show of breeding and decorum, with his eyes locked on the severed head on his floor. 

“I’ve heard a rumor that mezabaan accept gifts,” Darth Vader says. He saunters up behind Obi-wan and leans over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. “And what would Obi-wan Kenobi want more than the end of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn’s attentions.” 

Obi-wan swallows, unsteady on his feet. 

Vader steps back away from him and makes himself comfortable on the nearest settee; swinging his dusty boots up onto the delicate upholstery. “Is my gift satisfactory?” He says, a spoiled smile adorning his face. 

“In most circumstances,” Obi-wan says, clearing his throat, “gifts are limited to material items. I admit that this is the first such gift I’ve received.” He wraps a hand around the back of a chair to brace himself; his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

The Sith laughs, the loudest sound he’s made since their acquaintance. His curls fall loose around his shoulders and his face lightens with his amusement. He sits back up, feet on the floor, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.  

Obi-wan takes a few slow steps forward and kneels down in front of the head. Jinn’s eyes are open, his jaw slack in a pantomime of surprise. There’s no blood puddling on the floor. Vader’s lightsaber must have cauterized the man’s veins even before his neck split completely off. His skin looks slack and jaundice in the light of Obi-wan’s rooms.

He takes his time, memorizing the lines around the man’s eyes and mouth. He remembers the silky strands of hair sliding between his fingers. And the rough gravel of Jinn’s voice in the night. He had been bold and filled with the Force. Confident and sure in his abilities and only lacking in humility. 

He had been a good Jedi.

Obi-wan stands and bows, bringing his hands to his chest. “The Force welcomes your companionship. May it lead you well.”

His stomach rolls and his chest feels tight so he ignores the Sith and heads to the kitchen. 

Light floods in through the large windows spanning the long wall. Cool tiles line the floor and the walls are white washed and rough. In the center, a large kitchen table takes up the majority of the space. Herbs and vegetables lay scattered across the surface in a colorful array. In the corner, a massive cast iron stove taps rhythmically as it cools from the morning preparation. 

Sortya left earlier to collect ingredients for the evening meal. Before his journey to Coruscant, they spent many afternoons emptying and re-sorting the root cellar and larder. Without multiple mouths to feed, perishable ingredients needed to be used as quickly as possible. They’d paired down the pantry to just dried goods and sealed rations. But since their return, Sortya has slowly been building up their reserves starting with Kaimen’s favorites.  

Obi-wan pulls out a stool at the table and sits. His neck aches so he rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t look up when Vader joins him. 

“Please excuse me, Lord Vader” Obi-wan says, his training leading his words. “I feel ill this afternoon.” 

He does feel morbid pleasure that he is allowed these emotions. In another life, he might have needed to forfeit such feelings of loss and sorrow. After all, Jinn’s own Order believes in the freedom from attachment.  

As a youngling, he’d been so close to living out his every dream as a padawan learner. He’d passed his trials despite his rebellious nature, performed adequately in the training salle, and excelled in his academic courses. Master Yoda had been intent on his case, throwing Knights and Masters in his direction at every turn. Even Master Jinn had come to observe him one day; and had questioned him briefly afterwards. But with the war escalating in every system that melted away from the Republic, the Jedi were spread thin. Not many wanted to balance the challenge of a padawan with their military command. 

And so Jinn, and many others, had walked away. 

Obi-wan doubts the man remembered their encounter. When they first met again, he had welcomed Jinn into the Jehda Temple with a nervous smile and a litany of practiced phrases to ease any awkward tensions. But his fears were unfounded. Jinn had bowed, the Force flowing around him as if he were a pebble in a stream, and fucked Obi-wan over the low arm of a chaise lounge. 

He almost wishes for tears, but he knows they will not come. 

“The day my Master came for me, he killed my mother and presented her head to me as a gift. He said my weakness had been washed away. That I was free.”

Obi-wan stares at the table top; his heart cold in his chest. When he lowers his hands and looks up, the Sith’s face is blank. His eyes a thin yellow in the bright sun. 

“He is wise, my Master. And right. I was free. Free from attachment. I had a new life ahead of me. One made up of a thousand systems and a million worlds. What was one women compared to that?”

“Is that the gift you’ve given me then? Freedom?” Obi-wan says. His lips feel numb and his eyelids heavy. He wonders what impression he gives off to the Sith in the Force. For all his posturing, he knows his thoughts betray him. 

Vader doesn’t answer. But he stands up straight from his position against the door frame; his presence controlled. He circles fully around the table to sit across from Obi-wan. 

“I’m not sure if you killed the correct person, then.” Obi-wan says.  His words echo in the sparse room. “There is another, Lord Vader, that I find myself attached to.”

Vader tilts his head, his eyes narrowed. 

Obi-wan continues, “He’s a talented warrior. Simple in his affections. I particularly like the way his eyes catch the light.” He smiles, an empty gesture. “And very handsome.” 

The Sith unclips his lightsaber from his belt and places it on the table in between them. It lands with a heavy thunk on the aged wood. Streamlined and polished, it could be the lightsaber of any Force user. But Obi-wan knows that it hides a red blade; one of two.  

He pushes it towards Obi-wan. “Then free yourself, mezabaan.”

Obi-wan lifts his gaze to memorize Vader’s face. The scar across his nose, white with new tissue, flexes and stretches when he talks. In the bright light of the room, his eyes are clear; a translucent and pale yellow. And the last time Obi-wan had seen those red lips, they’d been wrapped around his cock. 

“I told you before, my Lord Vader,” Obi-wan says, “that I am no slave. Freedom is the ability to choose. And I choose to hold to my attachments. I am neither Sith nor Jedi. It is my nature to love.” He pushes the weapon back towards the Sith.  

Vader sits, making no attempt to retrieve his lightsaber. He stares at Obi-wan with narrowed eyes, his eyebrows furrowed. The Force ripples around him with blustering bursts of emotion. 

“I have another name,” he says suddenly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “A name my mother gave me. A name my Master could not free me from; that I have been too weak to free myself from. One that should no longer have any meaning for me.” 

Obi-wan watches Vader wrestle with his words, his heart in his mouth.  

“Anakin,” he says. “She called me Anakin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this scene was going to play out somewhat comically. Well, you can see how that went.


	6. In the Belly of the Whale

Obi-wan doesn’t see Vader for another year after he sends Qui-gon Jinn’s head back to the Order for burial rites. But his calendar fills quickly with other Force users anxious for his time and attention.

He spends one productive week in the catacombs with Jocasta Nu cataloguing and digitizing his research and translations. In the evenings, they take a light dinner in the garden and speculate about the future shape of the Order. Her laugh rings clear like a bright bird and she teases him when he blushes over her tales of debauched Council members caught kissing in the stacks when she was a padawan.

During the cooler months, Obi-wan joins Mother Talzin for a sabbatical in the mountains north of the city. They hike up to a system of caves that the woman claims are ancient communes of the original Force users. For five weeks, they light fires and speed-jack glitterstim while chanting from a mottled scroll.

Mother Talzin rehashes every moment to Kaimen when they return. Her hands gesture in wild circles as she explains her Force visions; from the minutiae of their daily lives to the coming of age rituals they performed in the cave system.

All Obi-wan remembers is the dry dirt of the planet coating his mouth after waking up in a filthy slump morning after morning. Kaimen smiles politely through the odyssey while Obi-wan sips at water, completely spent.

He meets Count Dooku in a elaborate garment for the first time a few weeks after Mother Talzin departs. As a youngling in the Temple, he’d never had an opportunity to meet the Master Jedi in person. And, after he left the Order soon after Obi-wan’s trails, he faded to little more than a legend. Obi-wan can see his influence on Master Jinn immediately. They both share the same manner of talking; steady and deliberate, with pointed glances and smooth gestures. 

They spend afternoons in the public areas of the Temple meditating and reading in the archives and evenings dining together at Obi-wan’s game table. Before the eve of his departure, Dooku kisses him under the dim lights in the parlor accompanied by the sweet taste of dessert wine. He touches Obi-wan with light hands, brushing down his arms and over his thighs with practiced but sensual affection. Obi-wan leads them to Dooku’s guest room and only leaves once the Count relaxes into sleep.

He showers that night with precious water normally reserved for his garden pool and lies awake in his own bed watching the holonetwork for news about Vader’s command. He finds nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

The next morning, Sortya helps him into a grand set of robes to escort Dooku back to his corvette. She pulls and tucks the long bolt of cloth around his frame in a bountiful drape of embroidery and beading. He stands, patient with her instructions to turn or raise an arm, his limbs heavy. 

In the atrium of the Temple, Obi-wan bows low and Dooku mirrors his goodbye. “May the Force be with you,” he says.

Dooku nods then, his face stoic. “And with you, Mezabaan.”

News of the Imperial Fleet comes in slow bursts from around the galaxy. The Neutral Systems report on increased activity in the mid rim as tensions build between Republic-controlled Naboo and Imperial Malastare. He, Kaimen and Sortya watch a live transmission, eating breakfast in the kitchen, as Vader’s Star Destroyer initiates an orbital bombardment of Naboo under suppressive fire from three Republic cruisers. Obi-wan leaves, his meal untouched, when both sides release their fighters in a spiral of flashing hulls above the curve of the planet.  

He finds himself in the garden beside the pool, pushing his emotions into the Force. He’s out of practice, however, and the loss leaves him gasping and clutching at his shirt. It had felt so natural, so long ago in the Temple on Coruscant, to tame his feelings. But now, their absence leaves a yawning breach cutting through his heart. He drops his face to his hands.

Kaimen tells him later that Naboo’s queen surrendered to Imperial occupation at Vader’s feet.

Obi-wan ignores the reports after that.

But this time, when Kaimen tells him that a Sith Lord has requested his attentions, Obi-Wan laughs, his hand pressed against his chest and smile on his face. He closes his eyes, nods to his apprentice, and disappears into his room for the rest of the afternoon.

When Vader arrives at the Jehda Temple weeks later, he does so with his hood lowered. As expected, he bows once as Obi-Wan returns the greeting. “Welcome to Jehda,” he says, his hands aching to touch. “The Force has traveled with you.”

“And I welcome its companionship,” The Sith says; the traditional words.

Obi-wan leads him to the garden. To his favorite shaded area. Kaimen was so kind as to already have a blanket and and water glasses waiting for them. They sit while Obi-wan basks in the heat and the rough scrape of Vader’s Force presence at his side.

“My Master doesn’t always follow the ancient traditions,” Vader says, looking out across the plants. The Sith’s hands pluck at his gloves, tugging on the tips of the fingers and tracing the stitching on the back of the hand. 

Obi-wan, startled at the abrupt conversation, folds his own hands in his lap. “Well I confess I know little more about Sith tradition outside of the Rule of Two.” 

Vader sneers, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl. “He would have more apprentices if he thought they wouldn’t cut him down at their first opportunity.” 

Obi-wan licks his lips, not quite able to summon the courage to pry any deeper.

“But my Master wasn’t the one to tell me of this Temple. It was another, a Togruta Jedi, one I’ve met many times on the battlefield. She meant to insult me, although her slurs would only offend a padawan. Vader’s face twists at the memory into a pantomime of a smile. “She’s a fine warrior. Passionate and unhesitating.” 

Obi-wan runs a hand through his beard, surprised. “And this Jedi sent you here?” 

“She implied that my Shien would improve if I were bedded more often. Suggested I come here to test her theory.” 

Tipping his head back, Obi-wan laughs. “I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased!”

Vader looks at him, an odd expression on his face, and tugs again at his gloves. “I was curious; the notes in the Imperial Archives were decades old. A facet of Force tradition that no Sith has explored in centuries.” 

“I’m surprised that you were so receptive to her suggestion,” Obi-wan says.

“She will be my apprentice, in time.” 

Obi-wan cannot speak after that, his tongue heavy in this mouth and his head dizzy with Vader’s implications. They sit in the garden surrounded by birdsong and sipping at cool water until Obi-wan falls asleep on the blanket in the pleasant evening air. 

When he wakes, he is in his own room and Vader is gone with a note from Kaimen that he will return the next week.

And he does.

Obi-wan takes him down to the catacombs that morning when he arrives. The light from the lamp casts a dim glow on the surrounding walls. Obi-wan squints in the darkness, holding the light up to his face. “I think I’ll continue with this panel here.” He reaches for his bag of supplies. “You wouldn’t happen to be fluent in Archaic Ziostian, would you? I’ve found a few comparison texts to the modern hieroglyphics but there-” 

Vader knocks his hands away from his bag and pushes him hard against the panel. He leans in, a dark shadow against the glow of the light. “This one says whoever fucks beneath the altar will gain the true knowledge of the Sith.”

Obi-wan squirms in his hold, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder at the inscriptions again. “Really?” he says, breathless. “That’s- I’d really love to get a full rubbing of-”

Vader breaks off his excitement with a kiss. Their teeth and tongues smash together in a mess. Vader’s lips, cracked and dry, press down on him with insistence. 

Obi-wan slides down the wall and onto the floor with a choked laugh. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” He pushes at Vader’s shoulders. “It says nothing of the sort!”

“I can read them, Kenobi. You’ll have your translation.” Vader’s hands tug at the hem of Obi-wan’s shirt, pulling it up to expose most of his pale chest. The Sith’s hot mouth slides down Obi-wan’s torso, sucking and biting as he goes. He looks serious in the harsh lighting. His face only illuminated from one side. 

“Obi-wan,” Vader says. The rough name catches on Obi-wan and tugs; pulling his eyes up to Vader’s face.

Obi-wan watches, transfixed as Vader unclasps his gloves and peels them back over his palms. When he touches Obi-wan again, cool metal fingers settle around Obi-wan’s chest and waist with light pressure. They glow in the light from the lamp, a deep black with gold joints. 

Obi-wan stills, his mind and body separated in a moment in surprise. 

But he licks his lips and reaches out to touch, shivering. Vader’s hands are cool, too cold even, and flourished with detail. Each finger extends, long and skeletal, with the barest hint of plating to cover wires and metal joints. His palms open and close with a whir of circuitry and rotors in the still air of the tombs. “Oh,” he says, his smile almost shy “I didn’t know.”

He pulls Obi-wan down fully to the dirty floor. His hands grip and tease over Obi-wan’s body, pulling again at his clothes and trailing with his tongue. “Obi-wan,” he says, moaning and rasping against Obi-wan’s ear. His Force presence rolls across Obi-wan’s mind like a blast of hot plasma; burning him up from the inside.

Resting his head, sweating and burning, on Obi-wan’s forehead, Vader’s hands slip along Obi-wan’s flushed skin; running over muscle and sensitive hollows in a reverent pattern. “I didn’t know what kind of creature to expect when I arrived,” Vader says. Metal fingers curl through Obi-wan’s trimmed beard and scrape against his lips. “I never expected this.”

  
Obi-wan’s growing erection strains at the fabric of his pants and Vader wastes no time in cupping it with his lips. His saliva soaks through the thin fabric, warm and wet.

Obi-wan pushes back on him, trying to find room to breath. His heart stutters, leaving him weak and panting. And hopelessly undone. 

He moans as the Sith tugs at him, his back arching up in pleasure. “My Lord,” he says, breathless with hot stings of pleasures peeling up his spine. “Oh, I want you to … to-” His neck rolls back, his words falling in strings of nonsense. He spreads his legs wider; wanton in his lust. The uneven ground digs into his back and legs and dust settles in his hair. He arches his back against the floor trying to find a hold in the folds of Vader’s shirt. His breath comes short and quick as his mind clouds with the sensations of the Sith’s hard body against his.

Vader’s fingers tug at Obi-wan’s pants, pulling them down around his knees. Braced over top of him on one arm and hair falling in messy tumble around his face, he mumbles in Obi-wan’s ear. “I want to see you come again, mezabaan.”

His fingers grasp, solid and unyielding, around Obi-wan’s hips when he buries his face in between Obi-wan’s thighs. Obi-wan’s breath stutters, his skin flushed and sensitive, at the wet intrusion. Vader’s tongue slides around the rim of his entrance and dips inside, wriggling to push through the tender muscle.

“Force, your fingers, please Anakin,” Obi-wan says, gasping. 

In the low ring of light from the lamp, Vader’s face creases with concentration. His eyes, golden and red and horrible in their own way, take in every flex of Obi-wan’s muscles and each raspy exhale as his chest shudders with every breath. He holds Obi-wan with one hand around his back, keeping him arched under his touch, as he pushes in one cold finger after another. They warm quickly, fueled by the tight heat of Obi-wan’s body, as they flex inside him. 

“Anakin,” Obi-wan says again. He can’t keep the name from his lips. It tumbles off in a shower of half-formed pleas and encouragement. “Anakin, I’m ready- just-.” He shudders as Vader opens and closes his fingers, stretching him open in a wonderful burn.

The Force holds him in a soft embrace as Vader pushes inside him. Obi-wan opens his legs and curls his fingers around the back of Vader’s neck, desperate for leverage. He gasps at the feel of it, thick and hard and filling him completely. Past the tip, it stretches him to the point of pain. Obi-wan whines, the sound rattling up though his lungs.

The Sith stills, panting down from above him, his hair a wild mess around his face. Obi-wan meets his gaze; his heart aching in his chest.

The thick material of Vader’s pants rubs the inside of Obi-wan’s thighs as his cock slides past his rim. Vader kisses him again as he rocks back and forth. His lips, red and and pliant, leave Obi-wan gasping as building pressure chokes him with pleasure. “Anakin, oh I can- “ 

“Fuck, Obi-wan, I…” Vader says, his voice cracked. He trails off to suck on Obi-wan’s neck as he holds his sides in a tight grip. He tilts his hips, thrusting fully into Obi-wan’s tight body, dragging himself in and out.

Obi-wan can barely sense anything outside of Vader’s dick pushing inside him and the immense presence of the Dark side brushing against his mind. It sings to him, an alluring song in the shadows, as Vader moans into his ear. Brushing across his skin, feeling and testing, it explores; guided by Vader’s mind.

He sobs, shameless and dizzy with pleasure. With each movement, his own cock slides across Vader’s rough shirt. He arches his back, his hips bucking and pressing up, desperate. 

With a jerk of the Sith’s hips, they tumble backwards again against the wall. Vader’s weight pushes him down as he pants into Obi-wan’s mouth.

Obi-wan reaches between their bodies, feeling at the tip of his cock with his fingers. His body quivers, the swell of Vader’s cock too much inside him. “Anakin,” he says again, breathless and sweaty, “Anakin, I’m there. Please, just a little more and I’ll come- I-” 

Vader’s movements stutter, his metal hands crushing in their hold around Obi-wan’s waist. He stares down at Obi-wan, his face creased and eyebrows furrowed. A bead of sweat runs down the cord on his neck and soaks into the dark fabric of his shirt.

“Oh,” Obi-wan says, his back arching. A flush of delicious heat blooms across his chest and down through his legs. His toes flex, fingers circling around himself to feel the extent of his pleasure. Panting and gasping, he whines as his organsm washes over him.

Vader watches him, his eyes narrowed and bright. He brings his fingers up to Obi-wan’s mouth, pushing in and around his lips.

Obi-wan murmurs at the attention, his body loose and docile.

With a few last jerky thrusts, Vader drops his head to Obi-wan’s forehead; his back bowing and tensing. He sighs as he comes, a hot burst of air from deep within his lungs. The Force breathes around him like an ocean tide.

Obi-wan’s throat is raw and chafed as each breath fills his lungs. Around his forehead, his hair sticks to his skin in sweaty clumps from Vader’s touches. He lies pushed back against the cool wall of the room, half buried in the dust caked on his back. His shirt rides up on his stomach; pushed away by Vader’s insistence.

Obi-wan kisses Vader's shoulder, light and gentle.  
  
“Two, there are,” Vader says. “Choose someone hungrier than you and you will be devoured.” He looks back up at Obi-wan’s face, the bloody rings around his golden eyes spreading like an infection. “I will not be thrown aside. I am the Master now.”

He leans down to kiss Obi-wan again, a simple soft press of his lips. “I am the Master now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to my wonderful beta who got be through this hellish chapter! And a specail thank you to Darth Maul for teaching me the term "speed-jacking." 
> 
> But umm..I had a hard time not turning this is into a dirty dirty trash bin.


	7. Ghorman

Obi-wan settles into the shuttle’s chair with a straight back and a polite smile. “This is quite the honor you have afforded me, My Lord. I confess that my usual transportation pales in comparison to such comfort and amenities.”

The Sith across from him waves his hand in a dismissing gesture, his face kindly with the onset of old age. “Please, Mezabaan Kenobi, let me have the distinct honor of entertaining you this evening. It would be a personal indulgence on my behalf. After all,” he says, leaning to the side of his chair in a relaxed pose, “you have been quite attentive to my apprentice. I would return the favor, if I can.”

A well-dressed manservant offers Obi-wan a selection of drinks from a small round tray, bending at the waist as Obi-wan analyses his choices. 

Obi-wan’s red robe rustles with his every movement. The sleeves, loose and embroidered only at the cuffs, extend only to his elbows leaving his arms free. The sheer white layers of his flowing pants and loose shirt allow his skin to breathe underneath the heavy mantle. Sortya enjoyed decorating his wrists and ankles with thin strings of tiny bells. They tinkle every time he raises his drink to his lips. He convinced her to leave off the full golden head-dress but settled for delicate cuffs around his ears. 

In comparison to the Emperor’s well-cut but simple robes, Obi-wan blooms with abundant color.

“And please,” the Emperor continues, “there’s no need for such formality between us. I would continue to call you Obi-wan if you have no objections. I suffer Vader’s insistence on ceremony as it brings him satisfaction. He asks for so little as it is.” 

Obi-wan allows himself a small chuckle. The Emperor smiles at him, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. Obi-wan reminds himself that politicians are not to be trusted. 

The trip from Jehda to Ghorman takes only a few hours. Obi-wan spends the time picking at delicate cakes and tarts while desperately trying to abstain from consuming too much caf. The Emperor is quick to summon someone to refill both his cup and his plate but it would be rude to leave them untouched. They speak idly of the new hyperlane opening on the other side of the galaxy near Mandalore and the trade that must arise from such an addition. 

Deep colors stain the interior of the shuttle. Red and burgundy drapes line the cabin’s shell and puddle in pools of sumptuous fabric on the thick carpeting. Instead of tables and seating being bolted to the hull of the ship, regular free-standing couches and chairs dot the open space peppered in between low tables for drinks. While economical in size, the engines hum with a steady gait that is quiet enough to never interfere with conversation. They buzz harmlessly in the back of Obi-wan’s mind; the only clue besides the darkness from beyond the portholes that they float through the disorienting silence of space. 

When they touch down on the beautiful surface of Ghorman, the Emperor’s guards escort them into the Palace. Surrounded by fantastical fountains and lush hillsides, the stone structure lays tucked in a natural hollow of nature. The air, pleasantly warm and moist, rings with the twittering of birds and the distant thunder of the falls. As they walk from courtyards through open-air halls, fountains sputter and gush, surrounded by lavish urns of blossoms. 

Inside the Palace itself, rectangular vestibules link circular halls that soar to the sky under coffered domes. Sunlight filters in through tall windows framed by heavy curtains and detailed tiles. Obi-wan moves with soft footfalls across shined, wood floors; endless in their expanse.

Few other beings roam the halls and their retinue reaches the Emperor’s receiving hall in short order. 

“Ah here we are. Please Obi-wan, have a seat.” 

With a hand low Obi-wan’s spine, the Emperor directs him to a handsome chair and settles in himself on the nearby couch. He presses a button on the neighboring drink table. 

Obi-wan tilts his head to the side, the bells on his ankles chiming as he shifts. “I confess, my Lord, that I am curious as to your invitation. We’ve never before had the opportunity to be introduced.”

The Emperor smiles, a benevolent look on his gentle face. “Oh my dear boy, you are quite direct! I expected the delicate turn of conversation before such a question!”

“I wish to respect your time. If you have not come to me before, than I doubt the purpose of this meeting is to solicit my attentions for yourself.”

Something slips then in the Sith’s Force presence. Like a poisonous snake, it coils around on the floor at their feet, ready to strike. The hot, sour stench of the Dark Side fills the air and Obi-wan has to swallow down his reflexive gag. 

“Astute of you, to be sure,” the Emperor says. The presence disappears, hidden again in the folds of the man’s mind. “And you are correct, after a fashion. I am curious of you as well. To see the mezabaan that has captured my apprentice’s notice.”

He stands, stepping forward into Obi-wan’s space, with only the rustle of his dark robes. Catching his chin, the Emperor lifts Obi-wan’s head up and to each side, examining the curve of his jaw and the soft arch of his eyebrows. He drags a thumb over Obi-wan’s beard, pressing down on his lips and squeezing his mouth open with faint pressure. Obi-wan complies, aware of the Sith’s ignorance.

He’s been examined before. Some Force users, especially those lacking in the same hierarchical structure of the Jedi, come to Jehda with preconceived notions of the role of the mezabaan. He’s quick to adjust their expectations.

The Emperor’s hands squeeze down his arms testing the firmness of his muscles and looking for any imperfections in his fingers. He pushes into Obi-wan’s abdomen; searching with his fingers for any bulges or tender spots to imply infection. Slipping Obi-wan’s feet out of his soft shoes, he spreads each toe and rotates his ankles. If they had been in a private room, Obi-wan has no doubt that he would have checked his genitals as well for disease or growth defects. 

Frowning, the Sith steps back, still towering above him from Obi-wan’s place on the low chair. Obi-wan watches him from under hooded eyes.

“As you can see, I am no painted whore. If you had come to me, I would have afforded you the same attention I bestow on your apprentice. On all Force users, my Lord. You must only ask.” 

“I’m afraid, Obi-wan Kenobi,” the Emperor says, “that I rarely find myself in need of company.” He relaxes back into his chair then. “But I hope that you will be amenable to my curiosity. It seems the histories have little to say of you.”

“Perhaps there is nothing of consequence to report,” Obi-wan says, tilting his head. “The life of the mezabaan is nothing compared to that of a Knight.”

The Emperor chuckles, “You sell yourself short, my dear boy. I’m sure you have any number of tales to tell. After all, you may be more well connected than even the Chancellor.” 

A voice cuts into their conversation from behind Obi-wan’s shoulder. “I agree, Master. Mezabaan Kenobi lessens the span of his accomplishments.” 

Obi-wan stands as Vader circles the seating area and bows to his Master. “Lord Vader,” he says, his surprised pleasure ringing out in the Force like the tiny bells on his ankles and chasing away the lingering touch of the Emperor. “I had not known you would be joining us.”

Vader turns, his face carefully blank. “I am here to report on the current status of the fleet.”

Obi-wan reels as if his feet have slipped out from underneath him. Vader’s cold manner should be expected and yet Obi-wan finds himself disenchanted. He suddenly imagines his many Jedi guests meeting him again at the Temple on Coruscant. Did he brush them away so quickly, distracted and distant in lieu of his other duties? 

From his seat, the Emperor smiles. “Of course, Lord Vader, if you would.”

Obi-wan sits, his fingers numb. 

Vader speaks, with an even tenor and few superfluous words, detailing the results of the latest battle near Yavin IV. He stands, the Force under his command, with hands on his utility belt and his back angled towards Obi-wan. His cloak hangs across his shoulders and down to the floor in a long line of black fabric. Obi-wan watches the sun play across the curved surface of his lightsaber. 

He had looked much the same when Obi-wan first glimpsed him. 

“The fleet is prepared for the final invasion of Naboo. While the Queen has signed our treaty, a few rebel cells escape conviction in the mountains west of the capital. We now have legal authority to mount a full ground invasion.”

“You have done well, my apprentice,” the Emperor says. He turns to Obi-wan, his face open and pleasant. 

Obi-wan gazes upon the man, a sudden anger filling him in light of the Sith’s callous abuse and disregard. He tries to contain his thoughts but they swirl around him, errant and frustrated.

“My dear Obi-wan, if you’ll excuse me, I must keep an appointment this afternoon. I’m sure Lord Vader would be so kind as to escort you to your rooms. We will see each other this evening, I assure you.”

He stands and Obi-wan follows his lead, bowing at the waist. “I look forward to it, my Lord.”

As the echo of his footsteps disappear into the hallway, Obi-wan and Vader stand together in a teetering tableau. Obi-wan looks upon Vader’s back; the Sith’s face still turned away. 

“Your presence here surprises me, Mezabaan.” Vader speaks first, breaking their silence.

Obi-wan’s face grows hot under the implied accusation. “I was not aware that should report my every movement to you, Lord Vader,” he says, his voice snapping and his fists clenching. He, at least, does not feel the need to refrain from his emotions in front of such a man. “After all, you have no official claim on me.”

Vader turns then, the Force flaring out in a wild burst of anger. “No, of course not,” he says, his eyes narrowed and burning. “Mezabaan Kenobi is free from such attachments after all.”

Obi-wan steps up to him, an arm flinging out accompanied by a violent jangle of the bells. “Do not color me a fool, Darth Vader. You know very well that I…” He pauses, suddenly tired, his anger evaporating. He looks down at his feet and closes his eyes. “You know very well how I feel. Mezabaan Kenobi may be free but Obi-wan is not.” 

A leather hand on his chin pulls his gaze back up. The Force swirls about the Sith, still unfettered and frustrated, but his gaze is softer and his grip light. He speaks slowly as if testing his words before they leave his mouth. “He wanted me to see you here. To see him touch you- to touch you like you were a slave to be sold at auction.” 

Vader brushes his thumb across Obi-wan’s lips in a ghostly pantomime of the Emperor’s earlier actions. “Another slave for him to conquer.”

Obi-wan watches Vader’s face as his fingers trace around the shell of his ear and linger on the cuff there. “Another?” He asks, his voice gentle and quiet in the airy room. 

“My mother,” Vader says. “And me.” 

The Sith does escort him to a guest room then. They wander through empty halls side by side. Obi-wan watches Vader’s face as they walk but his expression remains guarded and closed. They don't speak again until a servant greets them, bowing, at the open door to the guest suite.

Vader dismisses her with a gesture and they are alone in the hall again. 

“Will I see you this evening, Lord Vader?” Obi-wan asks. He aches to touch. 

Vader shakes his head. “I will be leaving with the fleet this afternoon.”

Obi-wan licks his lips. Somehow, he imagines that this might be the last time they see each other. That the weight of this farce of a relationship has become too heavy. That Vader will no longer seek his affections after all he has disclosed. 

His heart feels strangled in his chest as if the Emperor were testing that as well. 

“You must know…” he trails off, unsure of his own words. 

“Do I?” Vader asks, his eyes piercing and burning. “Do I? I have confessed to you but you have not returned the favor to me, Obi-wan Kenobi.” 

Obi-wan swallows, desperately looking for words that are his own and not of the mezabaan. He wishes they were back on Jehda in the garden and not in this hateful palace. That he isn’t wearing the splendor of his station. And, for a ripe instant of pain, he wishes that they had never met at all. If he had lived a different life and faced Vader on the battlefield as a Jedi, would his heart have been spared?

“I have no secrets to keep from you. No past to offer you,” Obi-wan says. He steps forward, closer to Vader’s chest. “Come to Jedha, one last time. One last gift.”

The Sith reaches up to slide his fingers through Obi-wan’s hair, tugging on the strands. He’s frowning, but the Force is quiet in his grip. He leans down to press one chaste kiss to Obi-wan’s lips, tilting his pale face up. “You’ll have your gift, Mezabaan. I could hardly refuse you anything.”

He leaves then, with a swirl of his long cloak and the steady beat of his boots on the wooden floors. Obi-wan stands in the open doorway for longer than is polite, long after Vader is gone, before closing his eyes and turning into the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-wan’s ensemble inspired by this famous piece by Alexander McQueen: http://media.gettyimages.com/photos/model-walks-the-runway-wearing-the-alexander-mcqueen-fallwinter-picture-id80086686 
> 
> Palps isn’t as subtle in this universe. He hasn’t had years of hiding and plotting to become Emperor. He has the luxury of taking over the place of his master before him. 
> 
> Also, I have NOTHING written for the next chapter (!!!!). So, that update might not be as quick as usual. But only two more to go!


	8. This is Me

Obi-wan starts with the careful consideration of his reference collection. He knows he cannot afford to keep them all; Kaimen needs all the resources Obi-wan can provide until he settles enough to run his own household. So he touches each scroll as he pulls them from the shelves, running his fingers down the coarse paper and over the binding ties. He sets each of them off to the side to be sold and keeps only five of his favorites. It is possible that they may be the most valuable, with colored images and spectacular calligraphy, but he dreads sending them off to languish in a dark database. 

After Sortya helps him find buyers, he moves on to his garment collection. He picks out his favorites first and tries to focus on their practicality. He has little interest in beaded robes and embroidered cuffs outside of his formal duties.

Luckily, with a little tailoring, Kaimen fits into the rest well. They spend a few afternoons at the tailor, Kaimen up on a stand in front of a set of mirrors, while the seamstress fiddles with hemlines and darting. Obi-wan smiles at his apprentice through his reflection and tells him how fine he looks. Kaimen blushes but his embarrassment is overshadowed by his excitement in the Force. The robes will do until he builds up his own set of finery. 

Other pieces, like hair ornaments and jewelry, carry more of a story and Obi-wan finds himself lingering over the memories they invoke. So instead, he asks Kaimen to choose his favorites and vows to sell the rest.

Sortya insists that Kaimen model his new station for them that evening and she prepares a grand feast for them to indulge in at the game table. When Kaimen emerges from his bedroom with staged formality in a grand set of red robes embroidered with gold thread and a jade headdress, Sortya sobs into her full skirt and Obi-wan has to wipe at his face. “Look at how much you’ve grown,” he says, cupping Kaimen’s face and leaning up to kiss his cheeks. “I am proud of you.”

But in the back of his wardrobe one morning, Obi-wan uncovers a piece of himself that he’d rather forget. Wrapped in a length of pale silk, his lightsaber falls to the floor from under a sizable pile of sweaters. He stares at it, eyes wide and clutching at the molted garments. 

Kaimen watches him from the bed. “Why don’t I take those down to the tailor to be darned,” he says. He slips off the side and prys the pile from Obi-wan’s arms.

He shuts the heavy door behind him leaving Obi-wan alone.

The end of the hilt pokes out from the edge of the silk where the bindings have come loose. It looks the same; simple and utilitarian with a wide grip and brushed outer casing. Obi-wan kneels down on the carpet and pulls it into his lap. Its heavier than he remembers and cool to the touch. He peels off the last of its wrappings and turns the hilt to circle his thumb around the red activation button. 

“This weapon is your life,” he says.

And when Kaimen returns, he finds the saber on the breakfast tray in the garden near the pool. Neither of them bring it up afterwards. 

Obi-wan saves his furniture for last. His guests still need somewhere to sit on their occasional visits. They needn't know that he’s greeted the last three in the same attire but they would notice the dining table missing if they took all their meals on the floor. 

Much of the furniture came from a long line of mezabaan passing down antiques to the next generation. The game table was a present from the Jedi Council almost seventy years before. And the settee that Vader treats with such little care was purchased by Obi-wan’s teacher in his later years. Those pieces stay in their spots while a few beautiful, but functionless, case goods are sent to auction.

Afterwards, he helps Kaimen move the furniture to fit the young man’s own aesthetic. They drag the hand-knotted rugs in the bedrooms out to the main seating area and arrange the settee amongst the tables for a better flow of foot traffic. Kaimen looks pleased when they’re done, his cheeks red and his eyes bright. Sortya praises their work when they relax in the new conversation space with cool drinks at the end of the day.

Some weeks later, Sortya busts into his room in the early morning, her hair in a wild mess around her pale face and her hands gesturing as she crashes in through the door. “Obi-wan, Obi-wan! Wake up. It’s happened!” She yanks at his covers, ripping them off the bed and onto the floor. “Get up!”

She drags him out through the sitting area and into the kitchen, her hand cinched around his wrist. He stumbles behind her, half naked in a pair of sleep pants that aren’t buttoned at the waist and his eyes crusted over with the remains of an emotional dream. He rubs at his face as they trip over the new rugs and shifted furniture in their rush.

Kaimen sits at the table bundled up in a fluffy robe despite the dry heat radiating from the caste stove. He looks up at them as they enter, tearing his gaze away from the blue holoprojector on the kitchen table. The remains of his enormous breakfast steam away at his elbow. He licks his lips, eyes flicking to Sortya, distress ringing in the Force, and stands to give Obi-wan the best seat. 

“...reports from Empire intelligence agencies about what the changes will mean for military actions are still unclear.” 

Obi-wan feels for the stool, his eyes on the projection. Kaimen and Sortay stay at his back, their presence warm, yet worried, in the Force. 

“As we’ve seen in the past, despite Emperor Sidious’ penchant for the expansion of the Sith Empire, he was rarely involved in military action. That role traditionally fell to Lord Vader. As High Commander of the Sith Galactic Imperial Army, he oversaw countless hostile takeovers of Republic systems. We have yet to see how this transfer in power will affect the current battlefields in the mid and outer-rim systems…” 

Obi-wan clutches at the table, his fingers white with the effort. “He…”

Sortya leans over him to thumb off the projection. The blue light fizzes out leaving the room lit by only the dim morning light from outside the windows. “He’s killed Sidious, Obi-wan. He’s become the Emperor.”

He slumps in his seat at her words, his spine crumpling under their weight. “He did it,” he says, barely believing it himself.  

With no other appointments that afternoon, and no planned visitors for at least a week, Obi-wan spends the afternoon by the pool. The water ripples with the light, hot breeze. He sits down next the edge, folding his legs beneath him, as a few water bugs skim over the surface on their long thin legs. He runs his fingers over the cool metal of his ‘saber until the moons rise.

He wakes the next morning, after stumbling back to his own bed in the dark, to a dull roar rumbling through his chest. For a moment, the deepest part of his mind is convinced there's been an earthquake or that the Temple has finally given into gravity. Adrenaline surges through his veins in a blind panic as he searches the Force for Kaimen and Sortya.

He’s halfway out of bed, struggling to pull on his socks in a confused rush, when his door slams open and Vader strides in, the Force rushing in with him in cloud of palpable elation.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” He says, a wide grin on his face. The Sith’s eyes burn with a red poison and his hair hangs around his face, a sweaty mess of grease and grime. “The sun’s halfway across the sky.”

Obi-wan gapes at him, his fingers tangled in his sock, the other already on one cold foot. He’s too surprised to even blush. 

Vader’s grin loses the hard edge of manic energy then as he steps farther into the room. He looks Obi-wan up and down, taking in the ruffled pouf of his hair, the red circles under his eyes and the lines across his face from the crease of the sheets. His baggy shirt hangs off him in a crumbled mess; he’s otherwise clothed in nothing but a pair of soft shorts. “I said that I could refuse you nothing, Obi-wan,” he says.

He reaches out across the empty space between them to trail one leather thumb over Obi-wan’s cheek. “Have you so little confidence in me?”

Obi-wan sighs, his apprehension from the previous night rushing out in a huff. “No, not with you Anakin. Only with myself.” 

Vader steps back, his head tilted and his eyes narrowed. The Force draws back with him, leaving Obi-wan sucked dry of his emotions.

“I have something for you, mezabaan. My last gift.”

Obi-wan follows him out into sitting area. The windows normally let in a the brilliant light from outside. They face full south, away from the rotation of the sun, to shield the room from the direct rays. But a dark shadow covers the room in a dim haze that morning; deeper than that of a rare storm cloud. 

A Star Destroyer hangs low over the ancient city. The deep thrum of its engines vibrating down through the mud houses and stone streets. Fuel lines dangle from its underbelly, sloping off of to tether down to the ground. Fighters zip across the surface of its hull and weave through the sky to avoid the few tall buildings of the city poking up into their flight path. Lights flicker and blink over the wide expanse of the floating behemoth in a starry pattern of twinkling colors. 

Obi-wan stands, dull and pale against the bright color of the rugs, facing the truth of his own game. He feels suddenly like a fool looking upon a distant dream; overwhelmed and horribly afraid in his one sock and baggy shirt.

He remembers the first time he was summoned before the Council to discuss his future. It had been a year since his trials and no Master had come to offer him an apprenticeship. He’d become sullen and bitter almost to the point of anger. But he’d hidden it away while in the tallest spire of the Temple, desperate to prove he still had a chance. 

But under the gaze of the Order’s brightest points, Obi-wan had shriveled to nothing more than his base. All his frustrations erupted like a fuel spill from his mouth at the very suggestion of the AgriCorps. He blamed his teachers, the Masters, his classmates and the war for his ineptitude. And the Council had borne the tirade. Listening with patience to his slurs and hot-headed accusations. 

Only when he felt the last of his anger fizzle out, his words trailing off, did Yoda stand and cross the room to peer up at him. “Much to learn, you have, Young Kenobi,” he said. 

Obi-wan knew shame then. It swelled up though his chest and bloomed across his face in a red welt of regret and embarrassment. He stared down at the floor, too petty and stubborn to fully face his own shortcomings.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-wan had said. “I know.” 

Obi-wan feels that same fear now, sour and raw in his mouth. 

And in light of Vader’s greeting, he isn’t surprised to see a box waiting for him. Compared to the game table’s delicate, painted legs, the box is thick, sturdy, and unadorned. Made from practical durasteel, it looks wholly out of place in the traditional setting of fine rugs and upholstered chairs.

He finds himself rooted to the floor, knowing fully what’s inside. 

The Force around Vader dances with success; tugging at Obi-wan to share in his brutal joy. “Did you doubt me?” He says from behind Obi-wan’s shoulder.

“As I said, Lord Vader, I doubt only myself,” he says, hiding behind his words and manners.

Vader snaps at him, his breath hot on Obi-wan’s neck. “Don’t use that name with me, Obi-wan. I’ve given you everything you wanted and yet you still insult me.” 

Obi-wan spins to face him, away from the box and its contents, his anger billowing up. The Force explodes from him, hot and full of fear. “I have no need of an empire. I have emptied my shelves and sold my belongings. Kaimen waits only for my word. And now- now I wait only for your word.” 

Vader watches his face, his yellow eyes cool and clear. “You have it,” he says. “You have it.”

Obi-wan freezes, his mind struggling with his anger and his elation; unable to reconcile them both in the same instance. “Anakin, I..I..” His lips move but he can form no words. He has run dry with years of superfluous talk and meaningless pleasantries. The mezabaan has abandoned him leaving only Obi-wan in it’s wake. But Obi-wan was always a hopeless fool; besotted and full of emotion; teetering on the edge of good sense and reckless abandon.

They’re standing close, chests almost touching, and Obi-wan yearns to stretch across that distance and thread his fingers through Vader’s curls. He wants to bite his lips until they’re swollen and pink. To push him to his stomach and open him up until he screams. 

Instead, he leads Vader outside to the pool under the cloud of Vader's succession. 

“What’s this?” Vader asks as they sit. He motions towards the breakfast tray.

“My lightsaber,” Obi-wan says, handing it to the Sith. “I kept it when I left the Temple.”

Vader nods but his attention stays on the the weapon in hands. He rolls it over, testing the weight and balance. His leather gloves creak as he squeezes his hand around the hilt. 

For a moment, Obi-wan thinks he might ignite the blade and his blood rushes through his ears. He hasn’t seen that blue glow in almost twenty years.

“Why are you showing me this?” Vader says. He places the ‘saber back on the tray. “I couldn’t free you then, and I can’t do it now. Only you can do that.”

“I think,” Obi-wan says, gathering his thoughts. He stumbles over his words, unpracticed in the art of expressing himself. “I think that I’d like to learn to use it again. That is, to practice.” He bites his lip, hesitating. “It was part of Obi-wan- part of me, after all.”

Vader regards him, the Force quiet around him. “Then you are no Jedi, to hold to your attachments.”

Obi-wan smiles then, a small ripple that brings a light flush to his cheeks and a swell of happiness to the Force. “No, I’m not,” he says. “Just myself now, I think.”

Vader leans over the breakfast tray separating them and pulls his thumb across Obi-wan's cheek. “The Force has traveled with you, Obi-wan,” he says. The Sith presses his lips to Obi-wan’s mouth, kissing him in a knock of teeth as he cups the back of his neck.

“And I welcome its companionship,” Obi-wan says, laughing. He leans forward again, dropping his head onto Vader’s forehead and breathing in the rough presence of him in the Force. “As I welcome yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image of the Star Destroyer over Jehda inspired by this concept art for Rogue One: http://conceptartworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/The-Art-of-Rogue-One-A-Star-Wars-Story-07-Concept-Art.jpg 
> 
> Only one more to go in this trash bin.
> 
> And once again, a big thank you to @thelivingcontradiction for helping me through this chapter!! I couldn't have done it without your input!


	9. At the Edge of the World

Obi-wan looks up from his glass slides at the sound of the door chime and pushes his hair back from his forehead. He adjusts his magnifying goggles around his eyes, wiggling them so they don’t pinch his nose.

“My Lord, The Emperor has requested your presence on the flight deck,” says the voice through the intercom. “The fleet is ready for departure.”

He recognizes Senior Petty Officer Boon’s voice and sighs. “Yes, thank you.” He steps over to the door and presses the release lock. Boon salutes him, his boots snapping as he straightens to attention.

“But, Boon, if you would. I need another set of eyes. While you’re here, could you tell me if you think you see a vestigial pair of legs on this specimen. I feel like my eyes are crossed from staring so long.”

Boon glances over Obi-wan’s shoulder to the microscopic televisor on the lab counter. The blue, grainy image of the specimen is enhanced through the holoprojector. It rotates, blown up in the center of the room into a giant projection. The computer analyses the image with a steady tick as a read out circles around the bottom displaying chemical compounds and basic statistical information.

He swallows, “Yes, of course sir,” and steps into the room.  

Obi-wan smiles and steps aside so Boon can step up closer to the image. He watches over the man’s tall shoulder; Boon’s anxiety trickling into the Force.

The Officer squints, leaning up to get a better view.

Obi-wan points out a section of the image. “Here. Do those look the the remains of bone structure? I can’t tell if the images is distorted or if I’m really seeing the leftover calcium deposits of a rotational limb. A rudimentary sequence of the creature’s genome indicates methyl groups repressing gene transcription.”

Boon squints harder for a moment, tipping his head slightly to the side, before stepping back away, his back stiff. “Sir, I believe that I will be unable to add any significant observations to your study.”

Obi-wan strokes his hand down his beard. “Hmm, that’s a shame. I suppose I’ll have to wait until I receive the test results back from the Scientific Institute.” He reaches past Boon to switch off the projection. “As it is, thank you for your help. You can tell the Emperor that I’ll be with him momentarily.

Boon salutes again, his face slack with relief. “I will sir,” he says before he strides from the room at a brisk pace.

Looking down at his specimen from Geonosis with distaste, Obi-wan instructs the computer to store it in the lab cooler with a few spoken instructions. The glass cylinder housing the worm freezes over in a crust of ice before disappearing out of view with a suck of air from the machine.

He changes out of his stained lab coveralls and into a crisp set of long pants and a pale tunic in their shared apartment before he takes the turbolift to the command tower. His lightsaber clips securely to his waist although it still feels unnaturally heavy hanging at his hip. He rubs his face as he walks, trying to erase the red lines pressed into his skin from his goggles before the entire crew sees him.

Vice Admiral Eman Ta’s eyes widen before he recovers and salutes as Obi-wan drifts through the blast doors. He must have been unsuccessful.

“Lord Kenobi,” Eman says, “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Eman,” he says.

Eman gestures towards the forward viewport where Vader stands with his back towards the entrance and his hands clasped behind him. “The Fleet will enter hyperspace as soon as the final preparations have been completed. The Emperor has requested your presence at the helm.”

Vader glances away from the vast expanse of stars as Obi-wan joins him. “How’s your Geonosian worm?”

Obi-wan smiles, his eyes crinkling up. “Withholding its secrets still, I’m afraid. I’ll need equipment from the University before I can fully explore my hypothesis.”

“Boon seemed terrified. What did you subject him to?”

“Oh, just testing his eye sight. He’s far too nervous around me.”

They stand on a raised platform over the control consoles at the end of a long gangplank. The crew, mostly officers and engineers on this level, buzz about below them murmuring final orders into their headsets and prepping for the jump. Lights from color buttons glow in the grey room as screens continuously scroll with detailed systems updates and schematics.The noise and bustle warms the cold of space.

Vader offers Obi-wan his arm and Obi-wan steps closer to his side, comfortable in the familiar Destroyer. He plucks at Vader’s fitted black sleeves and skims his fingers over the leather covering his knuckles.

The night before, they shuttled up from Ghorman’s surface to the fleet in orbit around the planet as Vader had preferred to oversee any final preparations himself. They’re bound for Mandalore for the yearly parade; Obi-wan doesn’t think that the invitation included provisions for five Star Destroyers, but he isn’t one to argue with a show of pomp and circumstance.

They hadn’t had much time that morning in the warm wrap of the heavy blankets. He’d woken to the rare comfort of Vader against his back; the Sith’s face tucked into his neck. They’d rocked against each other in a quick burn of passion before Vader took Obi-wan’s face in his hands and sucked a trail down his bearded jaw to his chest. He rolled out of bed, then, to leave for the bridge and his command.

But Obi-wan spent a few additional hours in bed by himself with only the memory of Vader’s fingers to guide his own hands. He lets his pleasure at the memory drift into the Force and Vader stiffens beside him.

“My Lords,” Eman says from behind them. “The Fleet is ready for departure on your command.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Obi-wan says, turning with his arm still looped around Vaders. “If you would be so kind, we wouldn’t want to keep the Dutchess waiting. She has quite the temper for a pacifist.”

Eman glances at Vader for conformation but the Sith does little besides turning back to the viewport. Eman swallows and salutes. “Yes, sir,” he says, before turning away and calling out orders. A chorus of instructions echo around command as officers burst into action at their consoles.

Obi-wan watches Vader’s face as the stars burst into streams of light. His yellow eyes, highlighted in the bright glare, appear almost blue. Obi-wan shivers; the sight unnatural and chilling.

Vader looks down at him and the blue illusion disappears, overshadowed by his eyelashes. “What is it?”

With the officers busy with system checks, Obi-wan steps closer for a moment, raising Vader’s knuckles to his lips. “I was thinking about our conversation in the garden. When you came the time after first meeting Jinn.”

Vader’s eyes narrow. “I remember. What of it?”

Obi-wan offers up a small smile at his serious face. “I said, then, that I wasn’t ready to give up my research. To leave my place on Jehda.” He looks out into space again, watching the streams of light. “I’m not sure if I was lying to myself then. If I was really content or just fooling myself into thinking I was.”

“I want to thank you, Anakin,” he says, turning back to Vader. “For the gifts you gave me. I never did tell you how...how important they were to me- are- to me.” He swallows. “And I don’t mean just the physical gifts, I mean your words. What you’ve told me.” His awkward confession sounds silly to his own ears.

But Vader watches him, his face blank but his eyes glowing. “I have no other gifts worthy of you than the truth, Obi-wan,” he says after a moment. “I wouldn’t insult you with jewels or treasure.”

Obi-wan basks in Vader’s yellow gaze and lets his pleasure flow out into the Force. Of all people, he suddenly thinks of Darth Sidious and their strange conversation. He smiles to himself as he watches the stars flash by and thanks the Sith for bringing such a companion into his life. It's a selfish thought, he knows, but cannot be inclined to confute his own heart.

A familiar sense of desire floods across his face in a smear of heat then as Vader shares his impassioned thoughts in a wild flurry. The Sith’s face reveals nothing, his expression as stoic and guarded as always. Obi-wan flushes under the crush of Vader’s emotions.

He smiles, his eyebrows twitching up to tease. “Your thoughts betray you, Anakin,” he says squeezing Vader’s arm.

Vader reaches up to cup Obi-wan’s face between his large hands, Obi-wan’s fingers still wrapped around his arm. The rush of heat slows to a steady trickle under Vader’s stare.

Obi-wan inhales once, the weight of Vader’s emotions in the Force almost too heavy before Vader drops his arms and steps away. Obi-wan exhales, the desire shaped into a warm pool in the garden of his mind.

“Vice Admiral,” the Sith calls, still watching Obi-wan “I want those schematics of the hyper drive modulations pulled up in my briefing room immediately.”

From somewhere behind Obi-wan, Eman affirms.

Vader steps back one more time before turning and striding down the gangplank past the officers below to the main blast doors. Obi-wan watches him, his own thoughts a quiet and content hum as the Sith passes into the corridor beyond and out of view.

He turns back to the bright tunnel of hyperspace and raises his arm to access his com. “Ahsoka,” he says as her tiny blue form appears. “Would you be interested in joining me in the training salle this afternoon?”

She grins at him, her burst of dark pleasure so strong that he can feel it up on the bridge. “Only if you’re ready to be on your ass.”

“Oh course, my dear. I would expect nothing less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This is the first multi-chaptered fic that I've completely finished. Thank you to everybody who has been supportive-of either by reading, commenting or talking to me on Tumblr. And I can't thank my wonderful beta enough! This fic probably would never have been as detailed without your help!! 
> 
> I am sad that its finished. As of now, I do not have plans for any additional stories. But, if inspiration strikes its not like I'll hold back. :)

**Author's Note:**

> mezabaan means ‘host’ in Hindi ; in chapter 1, I picture Obi-wan wearing something akin to a Korean hanbok for his first meeting with Vader
> 
> Good night, I'll see myself out. 
> 
> Thanks to @lacontradictionvivante (thelivingcontradiction) for being a wonderful beta!
> 
> https://selcier.tumblr.com/


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